


Wrath

by Avarantis



Series: Seven Deadly Sins [5]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-24
Updated: 2018-03-24
Packaged: 2019-04-07 12:16:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14080770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avarantis/pseuds/Avarantis
Summary: I love them. I really do. But I also love Ereinion therefore I had to be cruel to his mother. Shame on me.





	Wrath

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ClementineStarling](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClementineStarling/gifts).



> I love them. I really do. But I also love Ereinion therefore I had to be cruel to his mother. Shame on me.

**Wrath**

 

While fate dipped its brush with his smirking lips on my pale hand, I missed the drawing of the first line, ever so fine. I heard the stirr in the caligious water but I was deluded by his dauntless smile. Cool like a gentle morning, sprinkled with the far golden dust of a rising and long missed light. How they all longed for him, how they all lusted for him. But he was mine.

Oh foolish elvish maiden, why did no one let you see behind the colourful masks of good matter? On faceless expressions lurked the knowledge of onyx paint but you were mistaken it for a mere foundation.

Cristal were his eyes, mirroring the smooth curve of the azur horizon while he was dancing on the contour of the shadows silver linen absconding the matress we shared, still warm from the first drops of what I believed was the undercoat for a most gorgeous marriage.   
Dulcet whispered the desire-blazed mind to follow him, silenced brashly impertinent truth at first.

But through the shroud of misty midnight shone his true colours far too lurid. Two bodies as painted by one stroke of the same brush, bright flames connected dull dark desire that burned all my pictured hopes. Heated skin on heated skin, parted lips on parted lips. And he was his.

So I was caught on top of the easle. My happiness slowly strechted like canvas over wooden racks, forced to hold too much for far too long. He did not see my first cracks and the sharp eraser he held in his devilish hands, ready to rip me apart by one single word that would blossom the picture of flaming red.


End file.
